


if we run

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, also some of the loto peeps but they're really guests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:53:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: The first time you meet, he tells you his name is Jamie. That's when you know.





	if we run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> HI SOUL BOND BARKNAPP AU FOR JULIJA BC A) I LOV THIS SHIP AND B) I LOVE JULIJA <3 terrible repayment for beautiful beville buuuut i tried sobs

The first time you meet, he tells you his name is Jamie. That's when you know.

  
  
  


He shows you the tattoo on his wrist two months later, the evening before his debut league game. His lips quirk up in a small, anxious smile. You laugh it off.  _ I'm ten years older.  _ People don't get paired up like that, you insist, patting him on the head like he could be your nephew. He probably has a poster of you on his wall. He's eighteen and looks the part; floppy hair straying into his eyes, the shirt two sizes too big and draped over his bony shoulders. He's eighteen and he scores within eleven minutes of coming on, a powerful low shot drilled into the corner of the net. That's when you  _ know _ .

  
  
  


Steve and Robbie work it out immediately, but you always had the feeling that they would. "Hey, Growler," Steve says, one quiet day in the changing room when just a handful of you are left after training, "your name Robbie, by any chance?" 

"Dunno," Robbie replies, lazily flicking his head up to smirk at Steve. "Your name Steve? 'Cause that's what it says on my wrist here."

"Must be another Robbie." Steve shakes his head with disappointment. "They'd never put me together with such tiny sodding ears." 

From his corner of the dressing room, Jamie tries to catch your eye. You grab your things and leave in a hurry, mumbling some excuse about how McGrowler's cheeky laughter has put you off. At home you run a bath and sit in the cool water for half an hour. It melts against your skin easy as the way Steve and Robbie, Robbie and Steve slipped into each other. Just like that. You rub at the words on your wrist and try to forget.

  
  
  


Jamie slips into your bath the next time you run one.

 

You sputter and put your hands on the edge of the tub, making to get out. "Digger," he says, using everyone else's name for you, sounding so small and alone that you pause half-stood. Like a boy in the Kop waving you over to sign his shirt. He moves his foot and it touches the outside of your leg. You shiver without meaning to and he smiles again, wider and brighter this time, his brown eyes gleaming.

"Jamie," you struggle with the name, turn your wrist downwards so that he doesn't see it. "Don't do this." 

"Why not?" he asks, juts his chin out obstinately. Like a child being told off, for Christssake. He's only a child.

"They make mistakes," you say, clenching your fist because you don't know what else to tell him. Because you know it's wrong and you don't know why. "Doesn't mean anything."

He scrunches his face up. You know that look - you've seen it on the pitch often enough, his brows knitting together as he's perfectly poised above the ball, his boot almost caressing it into the net.  _ Digger _ , he says again, and both your eyes widen.  _ John. _

There isn't a single sound in the room except for your breath, harsh and heavy. He seems to be holding his. 

"Don't," you exhale, and stand up.

  
  
  


And it's easy to tell, see - everyone can tell from the way you slot in next to each other on the pitch, the dreaded words  _ meant to be  _ floating in newspaper headlines and on people's lips. You feel him settling into your head like a kitten, small and unsure of itself. Pawing at your insides.  _ Digger. John.  _ You keep yourself out of his, only because it's a trap you aren't allowed to fall into.

You're playing United at home and it's fierce. Hughes goes close in the tenth minute and you're sitting fourth in the table and Keane is bearing down on you, snarling like a dog. Without thinking you shout at Jamie to get in position and toe the ball into the empty space without thinking. And suddenly he's there, fists clenched, ball at his feet, his face burning like he could take on the sun.

_ John. _

You realise you didn't shout anything. 

  
  
  


You win that game two-nil, his opening goal a delight to watch and the lads bugging him about it much to his embarrassment for the whole night. Tomorrow you'll read the newspapers and smile. _ The middle of the park, where Redknapp and John Barnes dominated the first half.  _ He grins shyly and looks at you across the room. You raise your glass, feel the weight of things falling into place. 

It's nothing personal, you remind yourself the next time you step onto the pitch.  _ Jamie, go that way. Jamie, look at their winger, he's knackered.  _ Business is as business does, and it's easy to play like you're telepathic when you actually are. And it's  _ easy _ . You feel like an old dog someone's breathed new life into; his thoughts are the fuel to push your tired legs into gear, his eyes warm and serious and tipping you towards the space in midfield. And it  _ works _ . Liverpool are Liverpool are Liverpool. McManaman cutting in, Fowler lurking, Rush with the ball, Redknapp to Barnes.

The next time he gets into a bath with you, you don't say anything. Neither does he. The water swirls around your legs, soapy and pale, quiet in its ripples. Everything is quiet, even that space in your head you've steadily come to accept, and all he does is smile a little, his face melting into - 

not love, you think later. Not love. But you're smiling, too.

  
  
  


_ D'you ever regret doing World In Motion? _

You snort at the suddenness of the question, forgetting that no one else heard it. Macca looks at you suspiciously. Jamie hides his smirk behind his hand and you swear at him.

_ Serious question. That random bloke behind you going 'Eng-ger-land', that was cringeworthy stuff, big man.  _

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. One of Steve-and-Robbie will cotton on eventually, and they'll ask to see your wrist, and everything will unravel. Besides, it's not like you aren't enjoying it. (You  _ aren't, _ you remind yourself sternly. Just business and all that.)

_ I like rap _ , you say simply, and he sends you a picture of little Jamie clutching a De La Soul record. He's got the same big brown eyes, all lit up looking like Christmas. It's put a doofy smile on your face and you have to force down some water to hide it. 

He pauses a little, waiting for you to finish your drink, then asks,  _ what else do you like? _

And his gaze this time is not amusement but interest, the sort that'll serve him well in the future when he genuinely cares for the young lads, the panel show guests (though you don't know that yet); you feel your barriers melting away gently. So you tell him. About liking John Denver and Michael Jackson and Eternal. And how you watch F1 religiously, been down to Silverstone more times than you remember. About growing up in Jamaica, the discipline of the military and the sand under your feet. You talk to him even as you're driving home, about your lucky pairs of boots, your silly pre-match superstitions of singing  _ Eye Of The Tiger  _ the night before the game. He has a go at singing it, butchers it terribly, makes you laugh into your steak. 

And then he tells you about Bournemouth and playing under his dad. How he was put in a football kit even before he could walk, how he's spent his life perfecting that thunderbolt of a shot because he's expected to. His budding love affair with golf and proud he was of getting Nick Faldo's signature. His preference for jam over peanut butter and his not actually liking eggs very much. That he used to have posters of you on his wall as a kid. 

_ Used to? _

_ Shut up, you melt. _

You grin at the thought of you still on his wall. He's clearly embarrassed as he tries to laugh it off, but it's something you remember for the rest of the week. It's not just business anymore and as you realise that you realise something else - you don't care. You want to talk to him, listen to him rave about this new golf club and the new movie he watched in this cinema. He says,  _ wanna go with me sometime?  _ You say,  _ yeah, why not. _

And it's  _ easy.  _ And it  _ works.  _

  
  
  


It works until it doesn't. 

It works until he comes and finds you one day in the showers, his cheeks flushed and lips pale.  _ Oh _ , you think. You hadn't known how much it mattered.

"You're leaving," he says, his mouth twisted into a line. It's not a question. 

"Yeah. Jamie - "

"I found out though my  _ dad, _ " he pushes past you and stares at the wall. It's the same look you remember him giving all those years ago, the first time he told you; defiance and a trembling  vulnerability. "You're leaving to play for my fucking  _ dad. _ " 

_ You're leaving me _ , he doesn't say, but it still bursts through your mind like a battering ram. 

It's a sharp, bitter sting and it burns the tips of your fingers. 

"Jamie," you say again, taking his shoulder. He's twenty four and feels like it. You can feel the bone underneath his skin all raw and waiting to be filled out. It's the first time you've properly touched him without the context of a game or a celebration, and you move your hand away almost as quickly as you put it there.

"It's so far away," he says, uncertain now, quiet in his voice. Both of you have heard the stories. The kitten in your head paws at your edges and he's the one who reaches a hand for you this time, presses his lips to yours before you can react. He tastes of youth and beginnings and all the things you can't give him.

You don't mean to. You kiss back anyway. 

He runs his thumb across your jaw; you bury your hands in his hair, drawing him close. "It's your turn now, kiddo," you mumble into his cheek, smiling in spite of it all. "I'm too old for this shit." 

"Fuck off," he mutters, snorting, letting you go. You turn your wrist upwards to him and let him read the letters tattooed there all neat,  _ j a m i e _ , clear as day. It's the first time he's seen it. Anyone has.

"Thought you was a girl at first," you grin at him.

He laughs, fringed with nervousness. "Didn't really figure it'd be you. That it could be." 

One thing you'll miss is the way he looks at you. All young and bright-eyed, as if he's eighteen all over again, pinching himself to believe you're not a poster. "Don't you worry," you say. "Think of how much you'll save on long distance calls." 

He presses his forehead to yours, seems to choke back another laugh, and then skips out of the showers without another word. 

You call Harry the next day and sign for Newcastle instead.

  
  
  


Tyneside isn't too far away, and the first time you play against each other you picture  _ Newcastle 1 - 0 Liverpool _ and send it out smugly. He shakes his head and they beat you 2-0 instead, Steve scoring both goals and laughing at you when you drop by the dressing room after.

_ What's Newcastle like? _

_ Boring as hell.  _

December slips into January and you meet them again in the league cup. He picks up another yellow card as this time you stretch them into extra time, although it's not enough and Robbie puts the nail in your coffin. Rushie's playing with you this time and it's all very weird, Liverpool v. Liverpool; you watch the new boys like Owen edging their way into the team with something akin to longing. Jamie runs around the pitch without stopping, fierce and free with his knees all right again. You spend more of the game than you should watching him.

"Lads are doing well," Rushie says in the dressing room after. You figure it's not something you can kick one you've touched the sign,  _ this is Anfield  _ not just in Liverpool.

"Yeah," you say absently. He glances over and smirks.

"Redknapp's doing well."

You roll your eyes and attack him with a bunched-up sock. He ducks out of the way and waggles his (admittedly formidable) eyebrows. That night you try to tell Jamie about it, but you can't get through for some odd reason; everything's fuzzy and foggy and wrong.

You manage to tell him the next day and it's all good, almost as if it never happened, but it sticks in your head still. You brush the name on your wrist like you've forgotten it's there.

  
  
  


Charlton is further than Newcastle. Scotland is further than Charlton. Harry calls you to complain that those damn posters are still on Jamie's wall and will you talk to him to take them down, but you haven't talked to him in months. It makes you think of his voice,  _ big man _ , the seriousness that marked his frowns. After Celtic you watch him on the telly with the Captain's band around his arm, toeing a midfield that used to have you. The tail-end of your career and the height of his. This is what ten years looks like. 

The line is always fuzzy when you try and you wonder if it's the same for him. Maybe he's given up trying. It's not a loss, you tell yourself, and you always knew it would come to this. He needs his own time and space to grow up. He can't do that with you around, old and from another age.  _ They make mistakes. Doesn't mean anything.  _

_ Digger  _ rings soft and quiet at the back of your mind, like the toll of a bell. 

  
  
  


You grow older. You grow fatter. You spend your days being invited to after-dinner speeches and LFC TV and anyone who wants to hear  _ World In Motion  _ again. It's not a bad life, really, when you think about it. You've had a great career and there aren't any regrets, no missed goals or crippling injuries like - 

When your agent calls you at first you don't think much about it. Panel shows are easy as anything and it's a good deal, so you say yes before you ask for the name. It hits you like a flash in a pan, a spark, a cold bath in a freezing dressing room. 

"They're all in here," James says, bringing you around the door. And there you go - there he is leaning against the table, older (not quite fatter), arms folded and laughing as Jack makes yet another joke about Liverpool in the eighties. Freddie in the corner rolling his eyes, the make-up people desperately trying to get their hands on them. 

James gives you a little nudge. "He's been dying to have you on.". 

"I didn't think - " you begin to murmur. James grins and nudges you again, and you stumble forward, your movements all jerky and thrown into sharp relief. Freddie sees you first and gives you a bright wave. Jack starts to steal your rap bop, bouncing around like an overexcited kid.  _ \- didn't think he'd remember.  _

He turns around and his eyes are inscrutable, dark and not giving anything away. You step back almost without meaning to. He sticks his thumbs in his pockets and looks down at his wrists.

_ 'Course I would, big man. _

He looks up at you and he's smiling, slow and wide, his face burning like he could take on the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Redders's first goal was on his league debut against Southampton in 1991 and it is a corker   
> 2\. Digger is Barnesy's nickname after Digger Barnes from Dallas or smth?? idk i got this from wiki  
> 3\. The game is Liverpool 2-0 United (sigh), 1995; Redders scored the first goal in the 25th minute   
> 3.5 that quote is from [this](http://www.lfchistory.net/Articles/Article/1429) article IM EMOTION  
> 4\. Redders _[loves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frlnPqyr5VY)_ De La Soul  
>  5\. ETERNAL! INSIDE JOKE! real talk I don't know if Barnesy likes any of these, but he does have a thing for motor racing for kids in Jamaica, and he did grow up on a military base   
> 6\. Pls tell me you've seen [Jamie x Eggs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GF704xQMb8s)  
> 7\. John actually agreed to play for Harry's West Ham but went to Kenny Dalglish's Newcastle instead   
> 8\. When John was at Newcastle they played Liverpool like 4 times and Barknapp played in 3 of them  
> 9\. Panel show! ALOTO! The best! Call me if u like it 'cause i will spaz at u forever!  
> 10\. title from Thunder Road bc I literally spent 30 minutes thinking of a title and in the end heckd it and was like what does Julija like OH BRUCE ok v good  
> 11\. LUFF U TERRIBL SCOUSER


End file.
